


Real Estate

by scottishtragedies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breakup, Gay, London, Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Sad, flatmates, like really sad, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:47:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottishtragedies/pseuds/scottishtragedies
Summary: Sirius recalls a poignant memory as he packs up his old flat.Loosely inspired by Adam Melchor's 'Real Estate' ((stream it!!!)) and true events.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 7





	Real Estate

15 July, 1979.  
Some days, I think I’m okay. Others-- not unlike today-- I realise that I am not. 

15 July, 1978.   
It’s the first night in our new London flat! 

Remus is curled up beneath the window, his head hung low-- he’s working on some sort of cross stitch thing, but I can’t quite make out what it looks like. I, however, am draped over the shitty, patched-up armchair Peter kindly donated to our furniture charity. It isn’t comfortable, but that’s not an issue; Lily and I are going furniture shopping later this week, so, hopefully, this place will be fully furnished in a few days. 

Remus was eagre to get settled in, even if we had nothing to settle in. The kitchen cupboards are empty, the bathroom equipped with half a bog roll which we stole from old Dedalus Diggle at the last Order meeting, and both bedrooms are bare except for the dust we haven’t yet managed to hoover up. The living area is the only place that would convince an outsider that someone occupies this flat-- there’s the ratchet armchair, of course, but also the dozen or so candles that Remus has lit and charmed to hover just a few inches from the wooden floor. It’s damn cosy. 

‘Where are we planning to sleep?’ Remus peeps up from his trance. 

I almost laugh. ‘Was it not you who insisted to move in tonight? As if you didn’t know we had no bed’. 

‘I didn’t think about the logistics,’ he pauses. ‘I just wanted to be alone with you’. 

I don’t respond. Instead, I slither from this dirty chair and slump over to him, before laying down on the floor and resting my head on his lap. He’s continues to work on his stitching-thing. I stare at the underside of the blue fabric held tightly by the wooden frame, but I am still unable to figure out what it’s supposed to be-- the string is messy and knotted and chaotic. Maybe the front looks better. 

‘Can I see what you’re working on?’ I ask him gently. 

‘It’s not finished yet,’ he mumbles. 

‘I don’t care’. 

He pauses his work for a moment, as if pondering how catastrophic it would be to allow me a glimpse of his unfinished, probable masterpiece. He drops the needle from his grip and it hangs by the thread of white string embroidered in the fabric of the wheel. ‘Don’t poke yourself,’ he says quietly, handing me the wheel with its dangling silver needle. 

My eyes trace the lines of the piece-- there’s an oddly-shaped thing in the centre, looks as though it’s trying to be a rectangle; lines shoot out of each of the top corners, as if it has managed to grow two pairs of antennae; the bottom left corner is connected to another set of lines, but these are shaped less like antennae and more like a lazily-sketched line. I stare at it for a while, but I still can’t figure out what it is depicting. Remus, however, does not need to know that. 

‘It looks lovel---’ 

My faux compliment is cut short by a burst of soft laughter that erupts from the man above me. 

‘What?’ I question. 

He takes a few seconds to calm down, before looking down at me with an expression of amused disbelief. ‘It might make more sense if you hold it the right way round, you berk’. 

I feel a faint blush creep up my cheels, but I turn the project in my hands. ‘This right?’ I ask Remus. 

He nods. 

I take another look at his work. Once again, I don’t see anything particularly noticeable about the patterns. Now, it just looks like an oddly-shaped rectangle with two pairs of legs and a tail. 

Wait. 

An oddly-shaped rectangle with two pairs of legs and a tail. 

I know this one. 

‘Canis Major,’ I mumble. 

‘Good to know your N.E.W.T. in astronomy didn’t go to waste,’ Remus snickers. 

I stare at the needlework. 

‘I haven’t started the head yet, but…’ he trails off. 

It’s… It’s Canis Major. 

I swallow. 

I keep staring. 

‘I know it’s a bit late, but I didn’t have time to get it finished before our anniversary.’ 

I take my eyes off the art in my hands, and instead look at the man above me. 

My love. 

15 July, 1979.   
The perfection of moving out of the London flat exactly one year from the day we moved in is ruined only by the circumstances of departure. 

And it’s not like I have anyone but myself to blame for it. 

I almost regret having ever cluttered this space with more furniture than that shitty chair from Peter-- it’s only that much harder to pack up alone on a Sunday night, not even a glass of wine to get you through it all. 

James offered to come over and help, but he forgot to filter himself and proceeded to describe the day Lily has had, helping Remus with his half of this business. I thought it would be better to just… do it myself. Not let myself get too close to him, even if we were still separated by two people. 

I’ve only got my nightstand left to pack up by now, but for some reason it’s the hardest thing to even muster the courage to go through. But I manage it. 

The top drawer is nearly empty-- a pair of old sunglasses I haven’t used in months, a few receipts, a pack of Black Cat 9s, and a beat up copy of The Sun Also Rises. The second drawer has nothing more interesting than the top, and I start to wonder why I waited so long to go through the thing-- there’s nothing too heart-shattering in it. Finally, I pull open the bottom drawer, but it appears to be completely bare. As I shut it, however, I can hear something sliding against the thin wood bottom. I open it once again, and-- 

And. 

I can feel myself breaking down. 

I pick up the object. 

My face is growing hot. 

I stare at the wooden circle in my hand. 

My hands are shaking. 

I swallow. 

I can’t breathe. 

I fall backwards and let the tears pour from the corners of my eyes. 

I grasp the cross stitch tight in my hand. 

One year later, and he never did finish the head.

**Author's Note:**

> just a little thing i felt like writing :')) i hope u enjoy it!! 
> 
> don't be afraid to leave comments ((and nice criticism!!))
> 
> <33


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